Porphyria Cutanea Tarda
by Sanitarium
Summary: A search for his immortality leads to a whole new beginning. Based off of the old Undertaker comics.
1. Broken Life

            Mortality, what a cheap shot. Who was in control of Stygian now? What…what about Desdemona? He had promised to free her from her cell, to free her from her tortures. A thousand pieces of demonic scum came through his gates everyday and some how she ended up there. Desdemona wasn't a saint by any means, but she wasn't supposed to be in Hell's Prison. She had the strength others wanted though, powers, black magic, and demonic forces all at her control. Not when she was starved, suffering, and weakened from constant blood loss though. Her yellow skin that stretched over her bones like cheap film was marked with red lesions crusted brown and red with drying cuts. The fellow prisoners would slice her flesh with their nails and lick at her seeping wounds desiring to gain the powers she held. Desdemona chose whom she shared her powers with though, and she was selfish.

            Still, she didn't deserve that what happened to her. Her cell was no more than a corner with sharpened bars in front of it, not even enough room to lie down. When she was fed, _if_ she was ever fed was unknown. As she sat naked on the dirt floor her ribs pressed against her skin, hipbones protruding like sharp table edges, while her cheeks sunk in. Beneath her eyes lay the dark purple circles, bruises mixed with lack of sleep until her sockets appeared to be nothing but hallow.

            Oh, Undertaker wouldn't lie, he had wanted her powers too, but he would gladly set her free…there was just a small return price. He had planned to until the very day his powers had been lost. He would surely have to send the Embalmer a 'thank you' card for that. Girl was probably dead by now though, nothing he could do for her no matter how hard he regretted it. For now 'Taker was staying in the smallest, shittiest apartment on the Southwest side of New York City. The three volumes of the books of the dead were somewhere, they had to be in America, and one of them had to be in this city, solely because he said it so. What was he without his powers and immortality besides some measly middle-aged man stuck in a piss poor city?

            He wasn't staying there forever, not for long at all. Already he was walking down the dark and damp alleyways towards the only bar in town he could stand. He'd been there before, drug deals, money laundering, and everything else that ever went down went down there. The lowest scum of the Earth could be scraped off the floor at the 'Silver Bullet.' Druids, demons, witches, and worst of all _hippies_ frequented the torn red bar stools and hard wooden booths.

            The door was plane wooden, and swung open on screaming hinges unleashing a torrent of smoke and perfume filled air as he walked in, boots thunking over the old floorboards with every lumbering step. It was unpleasantly surprising that despite his mortality he could still see through every creatures flesh façade and see the scarred red flesh and beady eyes that lay beneath, tails curling around the bar stools' legs. 

            A woman in a painted on red cocktail dress brushed by him forcefully, the scent of burnt flesh filling his nose. He stepped back, cringing at the odorous scent that choked his throat and invaded his nostrils.

            "What the hell are you looking at?!" She snarled, that forked snake tongue of hers accentuated by a silver barbell piercing. Fucking demon whore.


	2. Broken Man

            Maybe it had just been his mind, but eyes fell differently on him now. Did they really manage to see his change? The bartender Benny, he knew from so many years ago bent at the waist, peering hard over his glasses and Undertaker approached.  The old man complimented, "You look like shit kid, where the hell did you go? Looks like a train hit ya."

            'Taker sat down and nodded solemnly accepting the drink which was set in front of him. "Not exactly, but pretty much what if feels like, so I might have as well been. Anything happen when I was gone from here?" He asked, looking back over his shoulder, eyes hidden behind sunglasses dragging over the crowd that packed the bar.

            "Same shit really, fights, drugs, battles, rumors, and the occasional brawl that took out three tables and a stall in the men's room. Everyone's been speculating where you were for the most part though, which is a very interesting question if I do say so myself.

            "After all, the man who would have already downed three shots of whiskey and shoved two punks away in this bar hasn't even taken a sip from the glass I have him, and it looks like the hair by your temple is graying. So what say you mister immortal guardian of the underworld?"

            Undertaker snorted in disgust, tilting the drink in his hand to see his own reflection. Jesus, he did look like shit, it was hard to see the difference in his hair color in the dark brown liquid though. He returned his attention to the elderly barkeep, looking over the mans face, skin like old leather, hard and splotched with sharp whiskers sticking out from his cheeks and chin and dulled stone gray eyes.

            "Mark, let's go in the back, after all, I really do think you need to talk."

            Benny nodded to his son who stood further down behind the bar on duty, signaling for him to pick up the slack while he ushered his favorite patron through an 'employees only' door. Undertaker rubbed at his temples before downing his drink and trailing after Benny. The back room was almost as poorly lit as the bar, aged sofas sat on each wall an end table topped by a bare lamp accompanying each seat, and a door in the far wall leading further into the bars storage area.

            "What is it Benny? What is it that you want me to say to you?"

            Benny closed the door behind them, and leaned his aging form against it. Adjusting the dusty glasses that sat on his nose as he began to address the real problem.

            "I need to know what's going on with you 'Taker, because I doubt that's really whom you've been left as. In the near ten years I've known you, you've never changed at all. Most of all you've never aged…until now. Two and a half weeks you're gone and now you have black bags under your eyes and you're getting gray roots, not to mention you're just about as pale as shit…paler than normal at least."

            "What do you want me to say Benny? The last two weeks have been harder than anyone in this fucking bar can imagine. I gained and lost all the power in those god damn books I've set my whole life after in mere moments and was lucky enough to get the shit beat out of me on the way. I personally don't think I need to look like I just came from some day spa," he grunted, gritting his teeth together, irritated at the very fact his friend was right.

            "Immortals don't age. So what is it, are you still Undertaker or are you back to Mark again? Did you lose your gift son?"

            "I didn't lose shit Benny! You know damn well the last thing I do is lose things. That motherfucker The Embalmer stole it from me. He took away everyone's mortality, mine, Paul's, even his own. I know that if I find him I can get it back, I bet I can get back and take everyone's powers along with it." He raged, standing to his feet, ripping the sunglasses off of his face.

            "You know you can't regain immortality from a mortal, even if he was an immortal himself before. There are rules to living in the dark side of the world, strict unforgiving rules. The only one who can give you your immortality back is an immortal themselves, either a druid, witch, or necromancer. Not to mention that there is a seventy five percent chance of failure if a woman isn't performing the ritual for you."

            "But women hardly exist in those positions anymore, Benny. They haven't for years."

            "They don't do it because so many women are murdered when they take those positions. Whole families have been burnt alive in their houses; estates where covens of witches and druids stayed were broken into and slaughtered. Even if women are left out there they are not going to be advertising their business out of fear."

            "That doesn't mean men can't do it. Twenty five percent means it works. If I go through it four times I have a good chance of it working at least once. You're trying to make this seem more difficult than it's going to be."

            Benny just shook his head sighing. "You have no real idea about this ritual you want to do, do you? You'd be lucky enough to live through the first one, and I know you wouldn't be dumb enough to try again, let alone three more times."

            "How would you know what I would do? It's easy for you to stand there and preach 'cause you ain't in my position!"

            "You need to go home Mark. You need to go home and seriously think about what you're saying. We both know, even though you aren't accepting it, you're in danger being here now. You have one too many enemies in this bar that would **love** to take you out permanently and now is their chance."

            Mark refused to argue with the aging bartender anymore. He placed his own sunglasses back on, tightening that leather jacket around his form. A half grunted 'See ya later' was thrown Benny's way as he left. The worst side of him was longing to go out and get smashed out of his mind, the mortal side, but what remained of his common sense pushed him back to that apartment for rest.

            He didn't doubt what Benny told him, he was a smart man, but Mark didn't want to believe that his fate was sealed. He didn't want to believe he was Mark again for that seemed far worse a fate than death. The memories of mortality were old, shoved back where they couldn't be seen and covered in dust like an old book on a sagging shelf. A brother, a mother who cared for him, and family he just wanted to forget.

            He stayed home for the next day trying to watch the T.V. and regain touch with a human culture so long ago he had given up on. Sex was the obvious prominent theme on everything though it seemed no one else though so. Other channels brought sissy watered down shows that supposedly dealt the occult but in reality it was nothing more than a few prissy girls giggling about pretending they were witches or some 'fun but sassy' blonde slaying vampires. All sorts of crap on every channel, enough to rot your brain into a dull contentedness.

            When the television became unbearable there was no place to escape but to the outside world. The first place he bothered going to was a twenty four hour analog of Denny's where he ate the first meal in two days of mortality, before going to a store where he stole black hair dye. There was no way in fucking hell The Undertaker was _paying_ for dye to cover _gray hair_, something called dignity and pride that his human side thrived on burnt in his chest.

            What he needed was to fight though. Joints ached and scraped against one another while his stomach growled and head throbbed for a quick adrenaline rush. He didn't need to find a fight, one would find him. Walking in a foreign neighborhood at night would be enough to give him his sought after gift.


	3. Broken People

            "Are you going tonight?"

            "Maybe, I don't have that much money left."

            "Fuck man, I'll pay for you to get in. I heard the owner will be there performing tonight."

            "What's so great about her? When she's around there aren't as many drugs in the club. She's a fucking heroine Nazi or something."

              "Hot as hell though. There isn't a straight man alive who wouldn't take a piece of that ass."

            "Come on, let's get moving at least, JoJo's scored some bud back home."

            The two junkies put out their cigarettes, one spitting out the ball of phlegm in his mouth onto the pavement. The place they spoke of was no giant club with flashing sign lights plastered all over the outside. Access came by going through the underground sewer system into what looked like a club beneath ground. And oddly enough, a mixture of both mortal and immortal lowlifes would be found hanging around there.

            Leaning against the building out side of said alleyway he raised an eyebrow, flicking his own cigarette from between his lips and putting it out on the ground. Benny stuffed his weathered hands into the pockets of his jacket before pulling his hood up over his head to keep his ears warm as he walked off in the direction of his bar.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            Mark looked about the club, nostrils flaring as he let out a sight of disdain towards the people around him. More women that usual in these events, but the largest majority were mortal, which was revoltingly odd. Why the hell had Benny sent him here? It made little sense if any for him to hang around in this vast club full of drugged out pseudo-intellectual want to be Goths. The phone call that had awaken him from an unexpected nap still fresh in his mind.

            "Mark, I might have a lead for you. Listen up, it may just be a pile of bull, but something is going on there. Don't know what it is, but it's something strong. All the shit of the earth is hanging out there, mortals, demons, and everything else you ain't wanting to touch. They talk about a woman who runs it as if she's God. She might be one of the last of her kind and she might be able to help ya."

            It was too late to argue with Benny, but to early to think if following the advice. He finished his rest, ate a poorly made breakfast, and still tried to catch up on what the world had supposedly become. Which meant watching excessive amounts of CNN and MSNBC.

            Now he was pushing his way through the masses of gyrating bodies, perfume and cologne heavy in the air accompanied by body odor. Near the bar, shouting conversations came into earshot. The neon lights that flashed on and off with the pulse of the music illuminated the inside of the literal underground club. The ceiling covered and veined in pipes that were abandoned and rusting, all the walls cement and metal grating, weeds and fungus growing out of cracks in the floor all to testament to the buildings quality.

            In his hand he squeezed the poorly drawn map Benny had given him, the ink running and smearing into the lines and creases of his palm. A condemned apartment building full of homeless drug addicted squatters littered the floor was the entrance. The basement lead into the sewage system, which was only the beginning. He walked along the sides of the sewer for a mile or two before a thick chain link fence blocked his path, and he had to take a detour that ate up another mile. The sewers ended at a steel door marked 'High Voltage' the padlock rusted and broken to allow entrance. He could already hear subtle undertones of music from where he stood, behind the door cement steps lead further downwards to the final destination. By the looks of it the place had once been used as a water treatment center.

            He watched the women clad in next to nothing rolling their hips and the men as well, drugged, and jumping up and down, hands above them in the air. What was he supposed to find here? And if it was a 'who' how would he ever locate them?

            Sebastian closed his eyes; his head floating free from his body while his arms rolled back and forth raving on their own. He was so hot and in his stomach the boom of the bass rumbled. His eyelids were on fire; fingertips crawling like maggots and his lungs had swollen to the size of buoys. Each breath taken was deeper and fuller than before and he feared if he breathed too hard he would explode.

            The music changed. The screaming and metal guitar riffs changing into long drawn out melodic words. His eyelids peeled back as his sights groped for the stage knowing what was to come. She was their, wrapped in red leather, so frail she looked to be on her deathbed. Her fingernails were long, pointed, and painted black, hanging on the tips of her fingers like leeches. Hair, wet, and red clung to the features of her face as if the strands were painted on, the brush strokes still fresh and gleaming. Every time her lips parted soft foreign words escaped, strung together like silk ribs tied into a noose. The crowd no longer thrashed as violently, moshing ceased, and conversations halted.

            She closed her eyes, the floor underneath her rattling, her vision of the crowd hidden, the lights too dim to allow her to see. Her music was playing in her club for her people, to which she was feeding her soul. They didn't care what she sung to the, demonic chants, reinforced Latin words from a choir behind her. It felt like a mix of having sex and hitting up heroine. Hips throbbing while she sung in chords and growls of ancient rituals, words that hadn't graced the Earth in thousands of years. The black in her began to swell, eating at her mind. The crowd replied in gasping moans and pleas for more.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            Mark squinted, his brow scrunching together as he attempted to focus his vision in on the woman on the stage. It was hard to tell who she was, as he was so far away and her bright red hair combed into her face hiding her appearance though the rest of her clothing revealed light apricot flesh bulging with bone growths and ridges along her arms and hands so common in her people. But there was an air of familiarity about her.

            The people who had once leaned in close to one another to shout conversations now stare dumb founded, jaws slack while they watched her. It was impossible to name what language she spoke in, it constantly alternated between the fluid movements of Latin like words to others that were like verbal rocks, sharp and hard, words that made you spit when you spoke them. Watching her was difficult to do, it bit at his insides as if there was something unholy and evil about her, but those same qualities were the car wreck that didn't want him to pull away.


	4. Broken History

            Around her fights would cease, people would forget what they were angry over, and contentedness would overtake, and it had always been this way since the beginning. There was no human birth; she merely came into existence on the day she was needed. When The One and The Judge stopped conversations the light was born to settle disputes. She became the middleman and the ruler of Purgatory, that whom cared for the lost souls and wandering saints. They named her 'Caregiver' and praised her words. The One and The Judge took witness and grew angered, as The Caregiver became less like them, and took qualities of the mortals. The One and The Judge made an agreement and The Caregiver was renamed Desdemona and she was cast to Stygian for the rest of Earth's existence.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            She was gone. His gaze had torn from the stage when he lost balance in a sense of vertigo, only to recognize the stage was empty and he had been staring for an unknown amount of time. The rest of the crowd awoke with the same reactions, murmuring fervently to one another.

            Her reflection in the mirror was better than it had appeared before. Green eyes weren't surrounded by tired dark rings, and lips that were previously blue and pale returned to a normal color. Jordan stood beside her, watching with and absence of expression, arms straight at his sides.

            "Are you ready Giver?"

            "No, I can't leave now. And I'm not the Giver, not yet."

            Jordan nodded, and turned around leaving the small room she rested in. Desdemona was not allowed to leave yet, the forces told her not to for she was not strong enough yet. She sat on the whicker stool that faced the rusted green wall with a single mirror placed on it. Her head was swimming, and all Dessy felt like doing was lying down and sleeping for several days to rise afterwards, and disappear on a Grey Hound.

            Beside her feet lay a suitcase with the bare essentials to her existence, clothing, a book written in languages too old to recognize, and other products so strange, only the miracle workers would know what they were for. Every night it had been the same thing, she would grab her bags and take a bus ride across state lines only to end up in a small road side hotel where the highest class of people in it were the business men renting a room for an hour or two to lay with a hooker. Jordan would stay with her, an arm around her, eyes open in almost paranoia.

            And Jordan would always travel with her. He was a good man, he believed in her, and some days he begged to serve her. He was young, but had such an appearance of heavy responsibility and maturity his age was impossible to guess. His hair a blonde fair enough to reflect the lights, giving it the image as if it itself glowed, and his eyes accompanied in the perfect shade of Aryan blue, with high and prominent cheekbones he was an angelic juxtaposition to her dark demeanor. Over the last few months his soul had changed and he was much older now, quiet and reserved most often, but always protective. Sometimes he would change though on the slightest whim. His face would crumble like breaking marble and Jordan would explode in an angry rage, or collapse into depression.

            She promised to make him happy though, and Dessy would fulfill it someday, just not now. It would be impossible to do so now, not when she woke up with pain raging through her body for hours, and she needed help just to reach their rented car.

            A large shawl was removed from the suitcase by her feet and draped over her head before the ends were tied beneath her chin. Sunglasses came next, old styled large frames and lenses, which took up near half her face when put on. She zipped up her suitcase and took the handle wheeling it out the door behind her. She touched Jordan affectionately on the shoulder.

            "We can go now," Desdemona whispered.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            The party was a waste, it was impossible to tell just how long he had been in that neon lighted hell hole among people so empty headed their skulls could be used as piñatas, as his watch ceased to work at eleven thirty three. But for sure, the time had been wasted. The urge to verbally rip Benny a new one for sending him here was overwhelming and lived under his skin like a parasite.

            There were several people slumped in corners O.D.'ed on drugs, now visible as people slowly trailed out of the building, no one cared about them. His head was hurting from the painful techno beats that had played through the most of the night, and from inhaling the acrid marijuana smoke that clouded over the club goers. Everyone he asked about the siren just snorted and blew him off like he was some obnoxious fan girl groupie groping after their favorite superstar. This was bullshit though, she had already left, and he could feel it in his bones.

            Filling in behind the rest of the lined up people they all numbly trekked out and back into the sewer system. They guffawed and stumbled over one another.

            "Dude, that was so awesome."

            "Oh my god…I think I'm going to throw up dude."

            The conversations were just thoroughly stimulating, and even though he couldn't get enough of the stoner's timeless wisdom it just seemed all the better to cut away from the crowd early. He diverged off into a separate tunnel that held a ladder that lead above ground. The manhole was pushed aside with ease, and Mark pulled himself out onto the dusty road. He didn't recognize the road he stood by, as the entire surrounding land was lack of even a broke down shack to use as a landmark. If he walked down the road long enough he would show up in town eventually though.

            "Hey buddy, you got a light?"

            He turned to see the blonde standing with his girlfriend at the bus stop.


	5. Broken Trust

            "No I don—"

            "Guardian?"

            He looked at the woman who was hidden in the shadows. "Excuse me?"

            "Guardian, why would you be here?"

            She looked so different. When she removed the sunglasses he took in a breath, having to squint as if his vision was failing, though he really only acted as if it was impossible for her to be whom he thought. Her face was fuller, chin rounded out, and her skin was creamy rather than the color of straw. She had bleached and dyed her hair from black to hot rod red, but her black eyes and scarred lips betrayed her costume.

            "Desdemona, do you know this man?" The blonde took Des' hand protectively, jealously.

            "This is Guardian, he watches Stygian."

            "Watched," Mark interjected. He had told her to drop the Guardian moniker many years ago, but she seemed oblivious to his command. "That's why I've come."

            Jordan leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and she squeezed his hand affectionately. She replied, "You've come because you need a favor from me, when you broke your only promise."

            "This is who left you to die?" Jordan snorted. He turned away as if in disgust, which was only a ruse, as he would up for the punch he came reeling with. Mark grabbed the blond's fist and easily seemed to brush him aside. He came back for another swing but Dessy grabbed Jordan by his shoulders, whispering harsh foreign words in his ear. The two were caught in a staring contest before his eyes broke away first and he whispered something soft to her, though he returned a glare to Mark.

            "I didn't leave her by choice. I left Stygian with every intent to return, Embalmer changed the circumstances. I never thought you would see this world again."

            "Likewise. I know of what transpired here on this plain between you and him, quite a number of souls do."

            Their tones were flat, it sounded as if every word they read was a line from script they had memorized the day before. Down the road a pair of headlights came into view, and the sound of a large engine as well. It was the bus approaching them.

            "Then you understand why I need your help."

            "I understand. And I'm not going to give you what you're after for that."

            "Dessy, you don't understand why—"

            "Shut up. I'm going to give it to you, but for other reasons."

            The bus stopped next to them its breaks squealing before the door hissed open. She didn't speak another word before stepping into the huge metal vehicle, and she handed no tickets to the driver. After a gaze at the elderly man he merely nodded to her, and signaled her companions to come as well. Mark stepped on after the two, following them towards the back of the bus. They took seats where there were the few differently styled in which passengers sat adjacent from one another they could carry on conversations.

            "What do you mean, Dessy?" Mark asked as he took seat across from her. The bus' interior lights turned off as it rolled into motion.

            "I'll restore your immortality, but not for reasons you want." She set her suitcase under her seat. Next to her Jordan sat still holding her hand, even in the dark his blue eyes were glaring. "There are other reasons I have to do it."

            "What are those reasons?"

            "I can't tell you."

            "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

            "If I tell you what happens it will change the circumstances of how it will all happen. Instead of nit-picking over why I'm doing this just be glad that I am doing it."

            "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," smirked the fellow young man.

            Though he didn't have immortality Mark still had self-restraint, which was most useful in not slapping the boy upside his head. There was something he despised about him, it wasn't that he was a smart ass; he'd had his share of many in his life. But this, it was just something…different, unholy.

            "All right Des, I won't ask about your reasons, at least tell me what the process is."

            "Why do you want to know?"

            "What's it matter why I want to know?"

            She sighed, and nodded before replying. "A lot of basic things, blood letting, spells, oh, and animal meat."

            "Animal meat?"

            "Nothing disgusting, just the sort of stuff you can get at a butcher's shop. It won't be for a while though. I want to rest now."

            Jordan shrugged off his coat, and folded it up in his lap before pushing up the armrest that separated him from Desdemona. She lay down, and placed her head in the lap of her follower, eyes closing while her red hair escaped the scarf to fall over her face. Across from them Mark sighed, and let his head rest against the bus' window. He could tell she was waiting to tell him something else.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            She walked ahead of him along the street, leading the pack. Mark had interjected once that this wasn't the way to the apartment, but she hadn't listened. Instead, she led them to an all night convenience store. A pack of cigarettes was removed from her jacket and she placed one between her lips, lighting it.

            "Go inside," she said. Smoke billowed from her nostrils as she exhaled.

            "Why?"

            "Because, you need to buy candles and ground meat. I know you don't have any at home." It didn't take a demi-god to guess that. Why would the Ex-Lord of Darkness have candles?

            He didn't disagree, but rather went in and bought what she told him. The cashier was obviously too tired, and too stoned to care the odd selection of what he had purchased. He was probably thinking about scoring a pack of Cheetos rather than if he was giving out correct change or greeting the customer with a smile.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            The stairs that lead up to the apartment were old, hand-built probably back in the 1960s and their condition had faded grossly over time. They creaked if a ball bounced down them, but Desdemona's steps were silent as she walked, the two considerably louder men following suit. She let herself into Mark's apartment, flicking a light-switch, the bulb shorting out afterwards which bothered her little, it happened often. Jordan pushed past Mark.

            "Wow, I bet if you fixed this place up it could be a piece of crap," Blondie muttered to himself.

            Des looked at Jordan, smiling softly before stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. The smile he returned was so subtle it appeared as merely a twitch, but he cupped his hand over hers. Mark would think them lovers by the way they acted, but the affection was different between them. She was obviously a caretaker of the boy.

            "Rest tonight," she whispered. "We'll be traveling all tomorrow to make up for tonight's losses."

            "I'll rest tomorrow then, I don't mind staying up," Jordan replied in an equally soft voice.

            "Tomorrow I'll need you to watch over me, I'll need your protection."

            He couldn't object to her wish, and let her lead him to the couch where he could rest for the night. Mark merely looked on, slightly annoyed at how they carried on their private conversation, but overlooked it all in the light of more important things that were to happen. It was obvious he needed her more than she him. He stepped into the adjoining kitchen colored in a vomit like green color, all to familiar of the swinging '70s. In the refrigerator there were several items: a package of bologna, Jack Daniels, a loaf of bread, and mayonnaise. He chose the Jack Daniels. Just as he started rinsing out a dirty cup to drink from, Des shut off the tap. 

            "No alcohol," she said, taking the glass.

            "Why not?" He gruffed. "I've got a fucking head ache."

            "Too bad, your system should be _somewhat_ clean before we start this." She ran her fingers through her hair, combing out the strands with her nails. Taking the bag from the convenience store off of the kitchen counter, Des left the kitchen, and entered the bathroom where she prepared for what was to begin.

            When Mark decided to join Desdemona she didn't allow him to turn on the lights. The tiny tiled room was lined with the candles, they were in soap dishes, on the back of the toilet, and on the sinks basin and she demanded that be all that they use for lighting. The tub was one fourth filled with water, the meat sitting in it, poisoning the water with its animal blood.

            "Will this take long?" He asked.

            "Yes, but you won't notice," she replied, taking a straight razor that sat on the sink.

            "What are you going to do with that?" He kept the nervousness out of his voice the best he could.

            "Don't worry!" She laughed, slitting open the tip of her own index finger with it, squeezing the blood into the bathwater, and onto the meat.

            He wrapped a washcloth around her finger when she turned back to him, surprising her with the act of kindness. "Do I do that next?"

            "Just wait," Des wrapped the cloth tighter around her finger. "All you have to do is kneel in front of the tub. You are to look into the water and blood until something is seemed."

            "Like what?" Benny's words about 'he'd be lucky to survive' were beginning to haunt him.

            She laughed again, though slightly annoyed. "You'll know when you see it! Just do it."

            Her attitude seemed so light that he had to trust her. Kneeling in front of the tub he watched the water with the blood swirling about in it, concentrating on the patterns of rings and circles. Occasionally he would look at the chunk of ground meat, somehow sickened by its' texture.

            Desdemona placed her hand on his shoulder, before she leaned forward and slit his throat open with the shaving blade.


	6. Broken Boy

            His hand reached for his throat, but before he could grasp his blood spewing neck he felt himself sliding down. The darkness came, then the cold, and finally the heat. His vision filled with orange and reds, and his nose with smoke. The feelings of where he was were all deja vous.

            "Undertaker," came a growled whisper. "You're not welcome here."

            Underneath him he could feel the hot rock with their blunt edges pressed awkwardly into his back, and he pushed himself to a seated position to relieve such discomfort. The sharper rocks bit and punctured his palms, though he seemed indifferent to the discomfort. He expected his head to flop backwards, the front of his neck so severely severed his trachea would be exposed, but surprisingly he had remained in one piece. Before him lay treacherous stone steps, the bases were cracked and on each side there was never ending nothing, plummeting into darkness, their path lead up to Stygian. So he climbed the steps and stood at the prison's gate, which swung open to allow his admittance. The place appeared of long abandonment, cell doors rusted shut, cobwebs everywhere, and behind bars lay yellow bones the flesh picked clean not from rats, but from their starving cellmates whom too succumbed to eternal death.

            The hollow wind whipped through the windows and cracks screaming at him in a duet with pained cries that originated from deep in the prison. He took heed and followed the wails though the more he carried on, the more it seemed the noise came not from in the building, but from it. He followed to the lower level, traveling down spiraling stone staircases, the screams were louder now, they came from every bloody impalement spike, individual whips and chains, cattle brands, thumb clamps and torture wracks. Still, following on he trekked deeper, and into the lowest bowels, each step making him heavier, his mind cloudier, and his stomach cramped in pain by the time he reached the dungeon of Stygian. The wailing was unbearably loud, and though he screamed for it to stop, hands pressed tightly over his ears, it would not cease. It seemed his eardrums would burst if it became any louder.

            But there in the corner of the dungeon hung the young boy of his child hood. His arms shackled to the wall, and his jaw slack, eyes squinted shut as he screamed. If he freed the boy he had killed the screaming would stop, the thought seemed as logical as 'if I pinch myself, it will hurt.' So he dragged himself forward, hands pressing harder over his ears to no avail, and when one left his head to touch the child he screamed in pain. His hand fell to the boys face and he fell from the wall, and Undertaker collapsed.

            He crashed into bones and through the wall but felt nothing, a second set of cries began and he simply ceased to exist.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            His body fell forward in front of her, thunking against the tub and his arms falling into the water. She grabbed him by the legs, and struggled to dump his body in, it took a good minute or so before the corpse finally was in the tub. Out of a small cosmetic bag she had brought Desdemona removed dried plant leaves and a fine black powder, which clumped together thickly in her fingers, she put this odd mixture into the large cut on Mark's neck. So much she put on it that it clotted over with the blood and formed a grotesque scab, the remnants on her fingers were flicked onto the meat. She took a candle, lighting both the scabbed wound cauterized shut, and the meat aflame.

            The fires spread, feeding off the blood and encompassing the meat. The smell was pungent and choking though she breathed it freely asphyxiating herself. Smoke filled the room at a steady pace until it brushed the ceiling and blurred all vision. She slumped to the bathroom floor unconscious.

            "Giver, why have your returned?"

            "I ask something of you Judge. I ask a gift of two lives."

            The Judge looked at the she-demon before him and pondered her words. "Why will I agree to this Caregiver?"

            "I will give you followers of mine and Stygian will be built anew."

            "I accept this proposal, you will have these gifts. But I shall give you only one immortal life the other shall be as a human. I already know of the circumstances in which you wish for these lives, and they will be as so."

            "Thank you Judge."

            The Judge left Purgatory and returned to his dwellings, where he watched Undertaker climb the steps of Stygian.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            Undertaker screamed as pain awoke him. It was like being burnt all over, and stretched inside out, but left as quickly as it came. The feeling took his breath and he sat for a minute, just regaining himself, memories dribbled back into his mind slowly. Instinctively he grabbed for his throat, fingering the skin, it was complete, though he came back with dried blood and something else he couldn't identify on his fingertips. He was in a tub. Why was—Oh, yes. His clothing was covered in blood as well as the entire bath. He needed a shower, he smelled like a slaughterhouse. So he took one, throwing his clothing in the corner with disregard.

            Stepping out afterwards he saw the sink, filled with rags and the clothing Dessy had worn the night before, both were soaked in blood, and the sink basin was flecked with dried patches of crimson. It seemed as if a much larger mess had been made, and then cleaned up, there was a single towel left on the rack, which he wrapped around himself.

            Logic stated how pissed he should have been that he was going to kill this woman who came into his home and took advantage of his kindness. But there was a benevolent sense of knowing he felt something, which was Greek to him, and somehow, he understood.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

"Shhh," Des whispered as she sat on the couch beside Jordan. He placed an arm around her, saddened by the fact how different she felt than the day before. She was like a rock wrapped in clothing, all hard edges with no soft spots to sink into, and she was lack of sleep, her fingers shook from the absence of proper nourishment. But she was at ease. He hated the man who left her to rot with scum and made her ugly, but she pretended as if she owned the dark one something and gave part of her life to him. Nine pounds of her soul and power she had given.

            The shower had quit running a minute ago and the apartment was now void of sound save for the occasional soft coos. The sound of the bath had reminded him of the night he had spent sleeping on the couch that smelled of alcohol and cheap cigars. He'd had better rest at a bus station and didn't smell as bad afterwards neither. There was no way he would think of using this man's shower though. Dessy handed him the bundle of cloth as the bathroom door finally opened. There was much she needed to explain this morning.

            "What did you do last night to me?" Undertaker asked as he walked to his room to scavenge whatever clothing he could to wear. The tone of his voice inclined he was only moderately displeased.

            "Exactly what I promised I would," Desdemona replied simply.

            "No never said anything about killing me."

            "I know, but do you think you would have let me had I told you? I had to anyway, your mortal life was useless on this plain, only on one of the other three realms could it change."

            He picked jeans up off the floor and pulled them on under his towel, they were clean enough. "If you restored me, why do I still feel mortal? Immortality does not feel this weak."

            "You don't feel any different because you aren't, yet. Last night two lives were created, mortal and immortal, the catch is here the strong depends on the weak. The immortal shall depend on the mortal."

            He understood, but…didn't. Black eyebrows narrowed at the woman. "Des…what did you do?"

            There was crying in the living room. Desdemona stood flat and emotionless as always. Undertaker hurriedly pulled on a black tank top, rushing out to the other room only to confirm his fears.

            "Oh God, Dessy, you didn't!"

            "That was the deal Mark."

            He stared at the little pink body wrapped in a t-shirt as a makeshift blanket. Des picked it up from Jordan's arms and showed her first emotion for the day, she smiled. The child became silent, resting its head against her shoulder.

            "No, that wasn't the deal! You never said anything about…that! What do you expect me to do with it?"

            "She is the key to your immortality, and she's yours."

            His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. What had he done? This was a joke, he must have still been dead and Lucifer decided to screw with his mind as a homecoming present. Des knew better than this, she would never trick him.

            "How is that the key?! Is that the immortal life you created?"

            "No, she's mortal, but she can make you immortal."

            "Fuck, so I have to wait for that thing to grow up, master black magic, and connect with one of the three eternal worlds before I get my powers back?"

            "No," Des just laughed. "You will be immortal much sooner than that. You will be immortal when she loves you."

A/N: Okay, I feel like I've got **lots** to explain now. The screaming boy I speak of was Taker himself. If you read the comics you know that Taker can't remember burning down the house and all that jazz, so that was him finding his own soul that he had put away so many years ago and becoming in a sense "human" again.

What's up with Jordan? I don't even know, but I know I'm the only person who doesn't think he's a whiney little bitch. XD


	7. Mended Family

            Desdemona smiled holding the newly born of light child against her bosom. It could have been mistaken as prematurely birthed for its small size, save for it's healthy complexion, and it slept soundly. Mark didn't appear to believe what she had done for him; he stared at the child with the bony protruding bumps upon its brow ridge, sharp fingernails, and wisps of dark hair as if he had never seen such a creature before.

            "I…"

            "When she loves you as her father you'll be immortal, if she stops loving you for whatever cause you will return to mortality. If she dies unnaturally before her time, the same will happen as well."

            "You're kidding! Why do I have to do this? What is she going to do for the world?"

            Dessy just shrugged her shoulders and handed the child over to him, he took it clumsily and it cried at the startling awakening. With no sympathy but compassion, she almost laughed at his panicked expression, and cluelessness.

            "I can't tell you exactly what she'll do, or what she'll cause because I don't fully know. I know that it all depends on you though. She's your child though, I made her from your blood, and your soul."

            He shifted the child in his arm so that it sat in the crook of his elbow, pinned slightly to his side. It still wailed from the experience of being woken up without remorse, something that he wished some days he could do when waken up at the wrong times. Truth be told, he **didn't** know what to do to comfort it, and **was** going to panic if the child didn't calm down. It appeared Des didn't look like she was going to help him either, she just continued wearing her expression of amusement.

            "What am I supposed to do with this?" He groaned.

            She seemed shocked, her eyebrows rose. "What do you mean? You raise it! You had a little brother, you saw how your parents cared for him, buy a book if you need to. I don't know why you expect me to know the answers, I've never had a child either before."

            Desdemona smiled jokingly, true, she had never been a parent, but she had indeed parented many a person. This was the first time there had ever been a child of her own though, something had been carved from her own image and soul, and it hurt. She had full confidence in Mark, confidence he could raise the child to her full potential. After all, he had always protected that which was his very well.

            "She's your redemption."

            He looked at her as if he was pure of all sins, and had no penance owed. "Redemption?"

            "For your parents' lives."

             He swallowed, finding it impossible that he had overlooked them, the lives he had stolen to fulfill his own selfish destiny. Arms shifted the foreign weight of the child so that its head was against his chest; there was no denying this was his. There was no denying it belonged to Desdemona as well, she had the demon bone structure to her face and sharp fingernails at the tips of her doughy fingers. He could see a flaming house in the reflection of her eyes, and hear pained screams in her baby noises.

            "What's her name?" Asked Mark.

            "Whatever you choose, I never decided on one."

            "She's your child too, Des."

            "I know," she sighed regretfully at her oncoming words. "I won't be around for her much though. You know why I can't stay constantly, too many people would be aware, and she and you would be in danger. I'll return in time. You'll be fine raising her, I know, Glen will help you."

            "Kane? No, I don't think he'll want a part of this. He hasn't wanted anything to do with me in a long time, you know that."

            "No Mark, he'll come back, and he'll stay. You're different now, I may have given you immortality, but I had you keep your soul."

            He frowned begrudgingly at her last sentence, for him the lack of emotions and pain of lacking a soul was a utopia. "When are you leaving?"

            "Soon, today."

            "Today?"

            "I planned on leaving this morning, but you have so little hear, you're so ill prepared, Jordan and I stayed so that we could help you briefly."

            The look on Jordan's face showed he obviously had no plans of staying here longer to help this man, at least without persuasion. Meanwhile Desdemona had already begun to slip on her coat and shoes. Both men gave her a look that asked, 'What are you doing?'

            "I hope you don't plan on feeding her bologna and Jack Daniels as formula Mark, because you don't have anything here for her to sustain off of. I gave her that part of your mortality, she doesn't need to know how different she is from the rest of the world she'll grow up in. You go stock up on food and Jordan and I will buy whatever falls under the 'miscellaneous' category."

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            Loose sheets of his bed were pulled up and over his face to block out all the light while he slept, laid out across his bed. By the time he had returned home yesterday Dessy and Jordan were had left whatever they had bought and then left themselves. A small 'post-it' note written in the best of penmanship read:

            'Mark,

Jordan and I are gone. It may be some time before I come back, but I will. It doesn't matter if you have moved by then, I'll find you, don't stay here in New York too long either, your enemies will catch wind of what's happened soon enough. I'll put in a good word with an associate of mine to get you a new line of work later in life.

                                                                                                -Desdemona

            The note was the only thing in the apartment that showed she had ever been there, aside from the many shopping bags on the floor, and a playpen set up in the corner of the living room. He even checked the bathroom to see if she had left her clothing there but it was completely clean as if nothing had ever taken place in there.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      * 

            Jordan sighed contentedly, his arms draped around the tiny woman who lie on his chest. A blanket was draped over her to keep away the chill of the traveling Grey Hound bus. New York was long behind them, and once again she was all his, her hand found his easier and now she needed him. Without him Desdemona was unprotected and vulnerable to the elements of the inhuman life. She needed his help to get onto the bus this morning and had trouble sitting up straight and staying awake.

            Why she had done this, she wouldn't even tell him. He nudged her in the supermarket and questioned why she was giving up so much for a man who gave absolutely nothing for her. But Dessy just smiled in reply and told Jordan she had been told by someone higher to do it, and that it wasn't for Mark, it was because this child had good to do. Of course if the child were of her it would do good, but it had so much of that man in it, it seemed impossible it could have been worth such a waste.

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            The banging on his door was loud and all too constant, seemingly like that of a cranky landlord. He could picture a short, chubby man with sparse hair in a horseshoe pattern around his balding head, and a half smoked cigar in his mouth, the spitting image of Danny DeVito. He raced over the floor, feet crunching over several newly encrusted stains in the carpet to quiet the noise that rattled the whole apartment. Mark didn't even bother looking though the peephole before undoing the locks and throwing open the door.

            …what was he doing here? The two didn't have a reason to talk to each other, so what was he here for?

            "What are you doing here?"

            Kane didn't reply.

            "Why isn't Jezebelle with you?"

            There was a long sigh before the single worded reply "Gone."

            Gone, just like everyone else he had relied on, except Mark was still around, in a way. It didn't make sense for Kane to come back after everything, nothing ever made sense though. The noise had woken up the—no, his child and now she was crying. Glen raised an eyebrow, and cleared his throat, "Do you have someone here?"

            "No, um," he almost became embarrassed. "That's…that's mine."

            Inside the apartment, inside his bedroom, and lying in her crib was Jennifer Samuel Callway. Mark left the doorway and picked her up to holder against her shoulder while she cried. It had been a week since he had gotten any decent sleep, and would be a long time before he got anymore, but he didn't seem to mind anymore. When he turned to see Glen, even behind his mask, Mark could read the confusion and questioning on his face. He wasn't sure there would be answers for the questions either, finger of his grazed over his child's head, playing with her hair and his other hand patted her back while he looked back at his brother.

            "Mark?" He wasn't calling his name; he was asking if it was him.

            "…yeah."

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

            He propped his feet up on the coffee table, stretching his toes underneath the fabric of his socks, and cracked his joints. Sitting on his thigh was a bag of popcorn, which Glen occasionally dove into, grabbing a handful before dropping it into his mouth. He ate this for dinner while watching some B-rated horror movie, 'Hotel Hell' play on TV.

            "For once…this time I thought it would be different, but I guess after a while you fall into a cycle though and you just end up repeating yourself. Jezebelle said she had gotten what she came for and couldn't love with the memories of this city. She said she wouldn't mind if I came with her but that wasn't what I was looking for. You're not going to run off anytime soon though, huh?"

            He looked over at Jen who was propped up with multiple pillows though still managed to slide over onto her back. He put his hand on her stomach, fingers spilling over to tickle her sides, making her giggle. She wrapped her tiny hands around his index finger, sticking the tip of it in her mouth.

            "Besides, if you try to crawl away I can just pick you up," smirked Glen while she drooled on his finger. Screams came from the TV but he had long stopped paying attention to the movie, if he had ever at all. In fact, he did pick her up, and set her down on his lap. "We should get you a bath before bedtime kiddo."

            Tossing half eaten bag of popcorn onto the coffee table and turning off the TV, Glen made the short trip to the kitchen with Jen under one arm. He took a large cooking crock-pot from one of the cupboards and set it in the sink, turning on the faucet to fill it up with warm water. Outside the apartment someone thudded up the building's stairs as keys jingled in the door to unlock it, it became known it was Mark returning home. He shoved his sunglasses up onto his forehead upon entering the apartment.

            "What are you doing?" Asked Mark while he strolled into the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

            "Washing off Jen," his brother replied, turning off the kitchen faucet.

            "…in a crock-pot?"

            Glen blinked at Mark's blank stare. "Well, … yeah. We don't have one of those plastic kiddie baths."

            "Okay," he shrugged. "I'm going to change my clothes before—Hey, Hotel Hell!"

            Mark plopped onto the couch while the bare child was set into the warm water. The TV's volume was turned up, hot air began to pour in from heater vents, and Jen splashed water onto her uncle's shirt. But for both men things were a lot better than they had been for them in a long time.


End file.
